If He Just Hadn't Existed
by littledarkangelhippie
Summary: If one thing had not led to the next, would she have stayed with him? If Naruto hadn't changed him, would she have felt this way? If he hadn't grown up the way he had, would she have been so scared to feel it? Gaasaku.


**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Naruto_.**

Gaara was beautiful in a strange way. A scary way.

He was a doll, made of porcelain glass, with wide, pallid eyes and soft hair that was chaotic in a pretty way, a nice way, and full lips that were almost as white as his skin. He was beautiful in a way that frightened her, that worried her, that tore at her, but she never told him, she _couldn't _tell him.

She was afraid how he would feel to know the one person he had ever touched so gently was also the one person who was the most terrified of him.

Would he be sad?

Would he be angry?

Or would he just be accepting, as he always seems to be?

She didn't think she could handle knowing how he'd feel anymore than he could handle knowing how she _really _felt, behind all of the caresses and all of the pictures she ever traced upon his smooth skin, so flawless that her breath caught in her lungs and her heart rose to her throat, trying so hard to find even an inkling of a hint of his past, etched upon his flesh, but to no such avail.

Gaara was as perfect as the porcelain doll he looked to be.

And beneath his clothes, snowy white and jade green robes, he was as lovely as he always had been, but instead of that psychotic, blood thirsty grin that she remembered every time she ever glanced at him and her thoughts dripped with sorrow, there was that gentle gaze she could not withstand, that warm smile that was so slight most thought it wasn't a smile at all—but she knew, better than anyone, how often he _really _smiled, how happy he _really _was to know the world had finally become peaceful, to know he could sleep at night and the whispers of insanity were no longer there to haunt him, to know another human, living body was right beside him to reassure his nightmares—and those impossibly soft fingers coming up to touch her face, so tenderly she felt breakable.

But Gaara was the breakable one around here, wasn't he? With such fine, fragile white skin and such innocent, vulnerable eyes. She felt she could corrupt him, so easily and so quickly, even though, not four years ago, he had been the one violating, disturbing, desecrating life and all of its joys, because he had been denied of any of it.

And she felt like a monster, like the monster he had been accused of always being, for thinking such thoughts.

His lips would always be so soft against hers, so pliable despite being made of glass, and his breath would always be so warm, so light against her cheeks as his fingertips danced a little dance across her thighs. His touch would always split right through her, like electricity, and his tongue would always burn its way across the column of her throat, because he knew she liked how it felt. But his teeth would never sink into her flesh and his nails would never tear across her body.

He never hurt her, but the fear would remain that he would.

And, _God_, if he wasn't so damn perfect she wouldn't be so scared.

If he hadn't been so beautiful, she wouldn't have done it.

~~...~~*~~...~~

Gaara was sweet in a very delicate way. A very simple way.

When the sun was blazing up above, he worked. He worked for his people. For his village. For his home. For his country.

He worked so hard he sometimes fell asleep at his desk, head tucked into the folds of his arms and eyes shut peacefully, lips parted as he took such soft, faint breaths, with the creases of his robes pillowing his head and his dreams as vague as the cool of autumn in the desert.

He worked so hard he often forgot to eat the lunches she packed him (good thing she visited or he would be nothing but a skeleton).

But when the moon bleached the desert of its color, and the world had finally slowed down to a crawl, he was hers. All hers. Completely and entirely and solely hers. And she felt so selfish but she couldn't quite help it, because Gaara was sweet.

Sweeter than anything she had ever tasted, tongue lapping ivory droplets that gleamed silver in the moonlight from her fingers as his pallid eyes melted into hers, mouth open as he panted for air—she had never seen the infamous Kazekage look so unbelievably delicious and so incredibly helpless as right then—his fingers curled within the dark sheets beneath them, sheets that smelled like flowers and sand and sweat, and a dash of pink across his cheeks.

Sweeter than anything she had ever smelled, nose nuzzling his crimson hair that smelled like peppermint and earth, like soap and musk, as he rocked against her, so deep inside of her that her little toes curled and her eyes rolled back, thrusting so gently she felt she would break, so tenderly she felt she would cry—because the notorious Sabaku no Gaara was not a gentle creature, not from what people always said—his hands trailing down her sides and mouth burning across her breasts hotly.

Sweeter than anything she had ever had, pulling her so close, wrapping her up in his arms, that she felt they never had been separate to begin with, his silken skin sliding against hers as he spoke of kindly promises she didn't know he'd ever keep, watching the moonlight spill across him softly.

If he hadn't been so sweet, if he hadn't been so gentle, would she have left him?

~~...~~*~~...~~

Gaara was innocent in a complicated way. In an intricate way.

He'd surely seen much more than she ever would, had seen his fair share of death and despair, of loneliness and sorrow, of destruction and power, but he had never known the kindness of love, had never felt the fluttering of desire—not the kind that meant the thirst for blood and battle, but the kind that wanted after flesh and warmth and pleasure—and he had never given his heart to anyone.

Isn't it strange that he'd give his heart to her, of all people?

And, _God_, it was such a beautifully horrible heart.

The first kiss had scalded her in ways that she could never explain, scarred her very soul in ways she could never fathom, and yet something pure filled her to the very brim, something blissful pooled within the pit of her stomach, that she could not pull away. His lips had melded to hers, leaning down to brush across her own, a thank you for all her patience and all her consideration. And such wonderful and terrifying sensations had bombarded her all at once, that her fingers braided into his hair, hair that felt grainy, like sand, and she crashed her mouth upon his, teeth clashing against his and tongue lashing out to taste him.

And he had been _scared_, startled away, his hands gripping her shoulders gingerly and pushing her away quickly, green eyes wide and stricken and a splattering of faint pink across his cheeks, and he looked so lovely she had to grit her teeth and look away. An apology slipped from her, and he'd only shaken his head, covering his mouth with one hand and turning away, vanishing into the shadows and leaving her guilt to fester.

If he had not sought her out that night, things might not have turned out this way.

Tentative, withdrawn, unsure, hesitant, and she could not help but smile.

Because Gaara was so innocent, in such a purely emotional way.

And the trust he must've put in her, to let her in so near, must've been nearly more than he could handle.

If he hadn't trusted her, would things have turned out like this?

~~...~~*~~...~~

Gaara was shy in a cute way. In an endearing way.

He did not touch unless she let him. He did not kiss unless she wanted him to. He did not hold her unless she allowed it.

And it was frustrating, but it was understandable.

The first time they'd slept together, he had trembled. Every touch had been timid, every kiss had been doubtful, and every embrace had been uncertain.

She had pulled his clothes from him slowly, haltingly, meeting his concerned gaze every time a new item fell to the wooden floor in crumpled heaps of soft cloth, white against the darkness. He had not been ashamed of his body, standing tall before her, all lean muscle and lithe figure, the same white skin all the way down. Graceful in stillness and elegant in silence. Her hands had reached out minutely, his head tilting to the side, watching carefully.

And she had been met with sand, grainy, his armor thinly protecting his flesh from her. "I won't hurt you," came her whisper as she took a step forward. It took so long for every plate to crack and crash to the ground at their feet, and so long to finally coax him into the bed.

He did not grow hard until she took his hand and pressed it against her bare breast, shirt half unzipped and lips trailing along his smooth jaw, her other hand wrapping around him. And a hiss, so low she may not have caught it had her ear not been _right there_, escaped him, the faintest twitch of his hips and his eyes roaming her face quickly, searching for any sign of betrayal.

When she gave none, he relaxed immediately.

Seventeen year old Gaara was so _different_ from twelve year old Gaara.

And his back arches, she knows, when she rolls her hips just right, hands splayed across his chest, down the faint hard ridges of his stomach and her thighs on either side of him. He moans, loud enough to echo through the room, perhaps even the house, when her teeth lightly grazes the shell of his right ear. And he gasps her name, underneath his breath, when she presses a kiss over his pounding heart—his wounded little heart that he guarded so closely for so long and yet gave up to her in just one night of trust and heat—and she knows, as she reaches her fulfillment, white hot fire and splitting electricity blinding her for a few minutes, he'll reach his.

So much learned in just one night.

And that was the first time he really smiled at her, sweet green eyes locked on hers tiredly, lips curled up so kindly a painful throb squeezed her heart, braced over him with her hands on either side of his head, panting so harshly their breaths intermixed between them, still connected down between the legs, sweat rolling down her spine and spotted across his torso. And how could she _escape _such a face, watching her so intently? Her tongue captured the clear and salty droplets and his fingers tightened around her hips.

Her name, spoken softly into the darkness of the night.

Where he was all hers.

If he hadn't come to her that night, would she still be here?

~~...~~*~~...~~

Gaara was loving, in such a perfect way. Such a lovely way.

He reached a place within her she never knew—she'd been with men before, never for love and never of her own choice, just her duty to her village, and he would always hate that the most, knowing he was not her first while she had been his—and he held her in ways she'd never been before. A simple kunoichi and a powerful Kage in bed together, twisting and writhing and panting; she was never meant to know this perfection.

The perfection that was Sabaku no Gaara.

And the way his hands smoothed down her thighs, the way he slid deep inside of her, easily, movements slick, because Gaara did not give in to his wants until hers were all nearly met, dripping with want and whining for him, eyes pleading and hands grasping at his hips. The way they met together in the middle, matching a rhythm neither had ever agreed upon (not vocally, at least) and the way it sounded, underneath his harsh, quick breaths but gentle, slow thrusts, beneath his soft noises and soothing scent, under his impossible beauty and his sweet taste, her tongue tracing across the length of his throat, making her eyes flutter shut as he sighed across her face.

And if he _just _hadn't come that night, after their first kiss, this wouldn't have happened. This wouldn't have turned out like this.

Because Gaara was loving, affectionate, cradling her face in one hand, melting into a kiss that scarred her deeper than any kunai could, and her fingers tangled into his hair, and not a single grain of sand remained, and she realized he trusts her.

He trusts her.

~~...~~*~~...~~

And her teeth were sinking into his shoulder, legs tightening around his hips as he pounded, roughly and harshly and almost angrily—only not, because the things he was saying in her ear, whispered grunts against her damp hair, plastered to her skin from a fresh shower and her new sweat, were not angry things, not violent things, not hateful things—into the heat between her legs, clutching at his back and crying into the steaming air around.

And she was scratching at his back, his beautiful, beautiful skin, beneath his shirt, wanting and begging and pleading that he break her, _right then_, the way she was breaking him. Her towel was bunched beneath her and his shirt was only halfway unclasped, pants only half slid down, and, _God_, she couldn't remember what she'd said to make him this frantic, hurrying both of them to completion, one hand sliding between them to the button there hidden beneath her folds, pressing and rubbing, mouth latching onto her throat and sucking so hard she knew he'd leave a mark (her hair was nowhere near long enough to cover it and she didn't mind at all).

Maybe it had been something along the lines of, "_Just fuck me already_."

She hadn't known when Gaara's innocence had been corrupted enough to understand the meaning behind her words, standing in the middle of the bathroom with only a towel on as he walked in to greet her after work, and gave an ironic, relieved smile as she realized it had been her, all along, tarnishing his sweetness and ruining his innocence. And she couldn't find it in her to care.

Because his teeth were lightly pulling at an aching nipple and his hand was tilting her hips up, dragging her closer, lips moving to hers, and the white flames encased her once more, a scream stifled by his mouth, hungry for her, blunt nails digging into her hips as he sped up to meet her in the middle like he always did.

And if Gaara had not been Gaara, none of this would've happened. If he had just been somebody else, if he had just turned out differently, it wouldn't have become like this.

But to ask Gaara to change, _now_, when he'd never smiled so much in his life—even if it never quite looked like a smile to other people—is impossibility manifested.

Just like his beauty and just like his sweetness.

~~...~~*~~...~~

The words tumbled from her mouth one day, perhaps a few days afterward.

She had always known it would. It was as inevitable as the changing of the sands, slipping from his long pale fingers as he stood at the grave of the woman that had brought him back to life nearly two years ago, green eyes solemn and remorseful for her—losing such a great shinobi would bring any great leader the deepest pain—grains tumbling a different way each and every time.

And those eyes met hers—_still _so innocent despite her corruption—and the most breathtaking smile crossed his face. And anyone within a ten mile radius would know _that _was a smile, the sweetest face just for her, sweeter than his taste and sweeter than the first time they'd slept together.

She had always expected to say it in bed, as he kissed and touched and tenderly rocked within her, her little toes curling and eyes rolling into the back of her head, as she burned away in white flames, quick electricity splitting through her, too out of it to control herself. But it was here, in the middle of the day, as his white robes billowed around him and his hair glowed poppy in the desert sun, high above them, the one day he wasn't working.

Her face burned with a blush and she gripped her arms tightly, crossed before her chest and eyes downcast, ashamed of herself for being so forward—but she always had been, and wasn't that what he liked about her, her honesty?

And if he just hadn't met her, if he just hadn't changed, if he just hadn't been himself—so pure and untouched despite all the horrors thrown at him for so long—this wouldn't have happened. This wouldn't have turned out like this.

If he just hadn't existed, she wouldn't have said those words.

If he just hadn't smiled back at her, with all the warmth she could hardly comprehend, she wouldn't have given a breathless laugh and her heart wouldn't have melted so completely, bliss filling her to the very brim.

If he just hadn't answered, so gently she wanted to cry, she wouldn't have believed him and she wouldn't have broken down in tears of happiness.

"I love you, too."

~~...~~*~~...~~

**A.N.****: Interesting. Hours of reading Gaara fanfics does this to me. **

**I fairly like it. How about you?**

**Review please!**


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